My taxi arrived at Ponferrada after a long, twisty, pleasant ride through the mountains. And by “pleasant” I mean that only one of three taxi passengers actually vomited. I paid our driver, then found a nearby bush where I could double over.

I limped along cobbled streets toward my bus stop. A young woman pilgrim joined me. 

Her name was Marie, from Virginia. And when she learned I was American we both got excited. Namely, because English is at a premium out here. And nobody can properly mutilate English like we from the Southern US. 

I asked what was wrong with my friend’s leg. She looked like she was going to cry. 

“I think I have a sprained ankle,” she said. 

Marie is 19, this is the first time she has ever been away from home. Her mother did not want her doing something so “foolish” as “gallivanting” on the Camino. But Marie did it anyway. She said she is here for guidance and clarity. Marie’s father died two years ago from pancreatic cancer, she has felt lost ever since. 

Together, Marie and I found a bar-slash-café where we could get out of the rain and wait for our bus. We had hours to kill, and I needed to get off my shin-splinted legs, which were throbbing like the bass track to a top-40 disco hit. 

I looked into the distant mountains. My wife was somewhere out there, walking the Camino without me. The previous night, my wife and I decided I would skip the next few Camino stages; she would walk for us both until my legs heal. That is IF—big “if”—they ever heal. Until then, I will taxi to meet her at each stop. 

The café was warm. Talk radio was playing. And although the radio voice spoke too rapidly for me to understand, I could tell by the adrenal tones that it was the international language of politics. 

Marie and I sat on stools and watched the locals consume their morning beers along with ample handfuls of Lucky Strikes, and I could tell Marie was crestfallen. She wasn’t texting anyone on her phone, she wasn’t taking selfies other pilgrims, like me. She wasn’t doing anything but sitting there. 

“Are you okay?” I asked. 

“I don’t know,” came the reply. 

I saw Marie’s lower leg was taped. 

“Does it hurt?” I asked. 

“Everything hurts.”

The bartender was older. Tall and slender, with a touch of red to her hair. She moved behind the bar with the ease of a feline. She looked at my 19-year-old friend and said something in Spanish. 

Young Marie looked at me, waiting for translation. I thought I saw tears in Marie’s eyes. Being 19 and lost in a foreign country ain’t easy.

“I don’t know what she’s saying to me,” said Marie. 

“She wants to know if you want anything to eat,” I said.

I could see the girl calculating menu prices in her head. “Can you tell her I’ll just have water?”

I spoke to the bartender in Spanish, but I did not translate Marie’s exact words per se. 

The bartender brought me food, then winked at me. I nudged the plate toward Marie and beseeched her for assistance consuming the oversized chocolate croissant. Politely she declined. But in the end, I won. 

“What was your dad’s name?” I asked Marie. 

There was already chocolate smeared on Marie’s chin. “His name?”

“Si.”

I too lost a parent at a young age. Everyone always tells you they’re sorry when you lose someone. But nobody ever asks their name. Sometimes you go years without saying the name.

“Andrew,” she said. 

I smiled. 

“What do you think I should do?” she finally asked. “Keep walking the Camino, or go back home? I don’t think my ankle can take any more.”

“Sorry,” said I. “I don’t give advice. Not smart enough.”

“I wish I had my dad to ask.”

“Who says you don’t?”

She picked at the croissant. A few Americans joined us for a spell. They were loud and fun. But Marie barely said two words.

When the Americans left us, Marie said, “I feel so confused.”

I nodded inasmuch as I’ve spent my whole life confused. 

“What should I do?” said Marie. 

Then, she waited for me to do what all middle-aged American guys do when posed with an existentialist question: Pretend we have the answer. Even though the hard truth is—the truth we men are so afraid to admit: We don’t know squat. 

Marie grew silent for a while. The croissant was decimated. And I’m assuming it was delicious, although it did not live long enough for me to taste. 

“I think the Camino never really ends,” Marie finally said. “Whether you physically walk the path or not, THIS is the Camino. LIFE is the Camino. I think the awareness you cultivate out here makes you realize the Camino is wherever God is, right? Because the Camino isn’t just a place or a trail. The Camino is HERE. It’s everywhere. It’s everything we see and do, everyone we meet. It’s you. It’s me. It’s our lives.”

Your girl is going to be just fine, Andrew.